


Darlin'

by stillgoldie1899



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillgoldie1899/pseuds/stillgoldie1899
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does it start with a look, lingering long after it should have ended? Or a touch, a kiss, a night? At what point can you call it love? (First impressions- Wendy/Jax)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darlin'

She was pretty trashed the first time she laid eyes on Jackson Teller. And it wasn’t one of those, ‘and their eyes met across a sea of people and time stood still’ deals. Fairy tales and one true love and all that bullshit wasn’t something that happened to a girl like her. She just saw him, and thought to herself, ‘hey, he’s pretty hot. Bet he has a nice ass.’ and continued with her evening. He had girls hanging all over him, and she was on someone else’s lap, besides. But somewhere in her Jack Daniels addled brain, the thought stuck.

She actually spoke to him, the next time she saw him, leaning up against the bar in that short little jean skirt she used to wear, the knee high boots. He called her ‘darlin’, but then, he called most women darlin, it wasn’t special, and she could tell he didn’t really see her. It was fine, though, wasn’t the end of the world. He was still just that hot guy, and he hadn’t even bothered to ask her name.

He was the one trashed the next time she ran into him, at one of the many little impromptu parties at the clubhouse. She felt his eyes before she saw him, looking around until she saw him sizing her up, seemingly studying the bare skin of her thighs, the curve of her hips, the way her top clung to her and left nothing to the imagination. But once again, he already had a girl on his arm, and while she was all about sharing, one of the other guys already had a hand on her ass, in that possessively non-possessive way they treated the croweaters around them. Temporary possessions, not ownership.

And it didn’t bode well, long term, that they were both trashed the first time he pulled her onto his lap, a week after that, his lips on her bare shoulder, mumbling against her skin, ‘no one here should smell as sweet as you do, darlin.’. Something in her stomach flipped a bit, in a way she hadn’t felt since she was a dumb teenager getting felt up for the first time, before she got used to men’s hands on her, as his fingers drunkenly explored any and all exposed skin, and then the less exposed skin, his breath getting heavier. She pushed that foolishness aside, got down to business, what was expected of her. And it was goddamn good, too. They fit together like puzzle pieces, no words needed except the occasional smattering of profanities, skewed a bit heavily on her side- she had a thing for dirty talk.

But that was all it was. One night, in a clubhouse dorm bed, and they both moved on. But she could remember the feel of his hands on her, the way the word darlin sounded, breathed out, a small grunt, as he buried himself in her. At her core she was an addict- one taste and she was already lost. But she knew better, she kept her distance, she didn’t crowd him. Men like him couldn’t be crowded, or rushed. They’d come to what they wanted in their own time.

He was sober the next time he came around, about a week later, and it wasn’t a party, just a sunny afternoon, although you couldn’t really tell from inside the clubhouse where she’d been trying to at least sweep the damn floors up from the mess left the night before. He had grease on his hands, mostly wiped off, but still there, and a look of need in his eyes, and all he said was something about wanting to hear her talk dirty again, before catching her hand and pulling her towards the closest bed, the broom left behind.

It didn’t seem as good, sober- he was obviously just there to get his needs taken care of, but she was used to that sort of thing. It was only after he was done, and had rolled off to the side again that he seemed to properly see her, eyes lingering as she caught her breath, before he leaned in, whispered in her ear, ‘I wanna watch you finish yourself, darlin’. The request- was it an order?- sent a shiver down her spine, and her fingers went to work, not used to having an audience, but happy enough to put on a show if it meant she got to get off.

She had barely managed to catch her breath after when he replaced her fingers with his own, and he was more skilled at it than she would have given him credit for. By the time he’d gotten her off again, he was rearing to go, and the second round was, by far, superior to the first. What she was so sure was supposed to be a quick afternoon fuck turned into a marathon, and when they finally emerged from the room, it was dark out, late.

They snagged food, and drinks, and even then, she was sure he’d send her on her way, but he didn’t. He took her home, to his cluttered and messy little apartment, and by morning her thighs ached, and she could feel him between them, and it was the best thing she’d ever felt. She knew then, but she knew it would take him longer to figure it out. And it did.

It took him weeks before he said it, before he looked her in the eyes, and said, ‘You’re mine. Just mine, darlin.’


End file.
